Recovery
by MorbidMotive
Summary: sequel to "Come back to me" John has returned home from the war at last, alive and with Sherlock there to help him every step of the way. But is the damage deeper than just a few broken bones and bruises? It's a long road to recovery, and John feels he's burdened Sherlock with the walk. Is he right? READ TO FIND OUT! Rated 'M' to be safe


**Welcome back readers! This is the sequel to 'Come Back to Me' and it's basically going to go over John's recovery and physical therapy. And there will be fluff. Oh will there be fluff. So much fluff cotton fields will get jealous!**

**Enjoy!**

Chapter 1

John sat on the edge of the hospital bed clad in loose sweatpants-he needed something that would fit over his cast- and his red shirt that Sherlock was buttoning up for him, since one of his arms was braced to his arm to it wouldn't re-dislocate. Once John was dressed Sherlock got on his right side and helped him into the wheelchair that he had to use until his arm was better and he could use crutches.

"Easy, sweetheart," Sherlock said as he carefully helped John lower himself into the chair. John sat down with a grunt and eased his sore back into the plastic back. Sherlock gave him a quick kiss and then proceeded to the back of the wheelchair to push John.

John smiled at the name. The first time Sherlock called him 'sweetheart' was that day in the hospital last week.

Sherlock was Love, and now John was sweetheart.

Sherlock pushed John out to the nurses station to fill out the paperwork so John could come home. Once that was done they headed out to the black car that was waiting to take them home.

Getting John up the stairs was a bit difficult. Since John's right arm (he had landed on his right said) was immobilized, Sherlock picked him up on his left side and carried him up the stairs, placing him comfortably on their bed then went down to get the wheelchair. Once he had climbed the stairs a second time, he walked into the bedroom and laid down next to his husband. He turned on his side and nuzzled his nose into John's sandy blonde hair.

"I love you."

John smiled and rubbed Sherlock's stomach with one of his fingers on his good hand. "I love you too. And don't worry. I won't be going back into action again."

"Good. I'm not going through that again and neither are you."

John smiled, but it soon faltered. "I'm sorry you have to take care of me. You won't be able to do any cases."

"I don't care. You're more important to me than a case. Wipe that smug look off your face. You know you're the most important part of my life."

"I know. I just like hearing you say it."

Sherlock smiled and kissed John's hair. "You're beautiful. "

John huffed a sad laugh. "No I'm not. I'm burnt, bruised, stitched, scarred-"

"Beautiful."

"Thank you," John said before yawning. "You are too."

"You flatter me. Now, get some sleep, sweetheart. I'll be here when you wake up."

John nodded and burrowed his head in the crook of Sherlock's warm neck, and was in a comfortable sleep in mere minutes.

xxx

John slept through to the next morning, from thirteen hundred hours to nine in the morning that Saturday. When he got up, Sherlock helped put his cast into a bag, then placed him in the tub, making sure that the water was low enough that it wouldn't get his brace wet. He helped John bathe the way the nurses had showed him, and John was thankful that he and Sherlock were together, because this would be very awkward if they were still just flatmates.

Once he was dressed, Sherlock made him some eggs for breakfast. He had gotten quite good at cooking since he had gotten together with John, and John ate his meal happily while Sherlock watched. John asked if Sherlock wanted some, knowing the answer but asking to be polite, Sherlock tended to make more food than necessary for only breakfast.

When breakfast was eaten and done with, Sherlock helped John over to the couch, where they sat down and watched some Doctor Who. Sherlock sat against the side of the sofa with John between his legs leaning against his chest. They had taken to this position a lot recently, since it was a comfortable way for John to be in Sherlock's arms. He fell asleep after a few episodes, and Sherlock rubbed his stomach with the pads of his thumbs to keep away any nightmares that could mouse their way into his unconscious mind.

John had been very tired lately, which was understandable since he probably hadn't slept much in Afghanistan. He also had a lot of nightmares while he was in the hospital, probably because he wasn't in his own bed, so his mind tricked him into thinking that he was still on a cot in afghanistan. He woke up one from one one night in the hospital, and it took Sherlock three minutes to get him to calm down enough to ensure him that he was in the hospital and that the rapid beeping, which had increased, was his heart monitor, and not a bomb about to detonate. John cried in his husbands arms for a long while, shaking and scared, and he refused to go to sleep the rest of the night. That was how he knew it was really bad. John had had nightmares before, but never bad enough to go against his own rules of sleeping.

Luckily, that didn't happen, and John slept peacefully for an hour and a half before waking up. He called out Sherlock's name as he woke up, and the detective came into the bedroom, picked him up, and placed him on the couch in the livingroom. He then proceeded to the kitchen to make some tea. He retrieved the kettle to fill it up with water, but the sink was full. He placed the kettle back down to try and make a space, and in the process, knocked a frying pan to the floor, causing it to clatter and fall with a loud bang on the floor. He heard John gasp from his spot on the couch. "Don't worry, nothing broke." When he didn't get a response, he looked back at the doctor and what he saw caused him to frown.

The doctor looked distant, dazed out. Even though his body was sitting on the couch, Sherlock knew that John wasn't there. He was stuck in Afghanistan, in an ambush with bombs and explosions. He walked over and kneeled close to him, but far back enough so if John acted on instinct he wouldn't get clobbered, and gently whispered to the shaking soldier, "Hey, John, it's alright, you're home, at 221B. It's just a flashback sweetheart."

John snapped out of his trance with a jolt and a gasp. He looked at Sherlock with tears spilling out of his eyes. The detective took hold of his husband and held him as tight as he dared, rubbing soothing circles on his back as the doctor shook and tried to will the tears to stop. The flashback put him a bit back into soldier mode, and ever the strong soldier, he refused to cry. His heart, however, didn't listen, and he nuzzled his face into Sherlock's shoulder, and cried into his shirt.

They were broken, bruised and damaged, but they were together.


End file.
